Miami Mixer
by Jazzy Fader
Summary: Miami Mixer is a Angel of La Guardia/Dexter/Phoenix Wright crossover. Haley and Quinne take a much-needed vacation from Amberlin, but land in the middle of a nasty serial killing spree. Haley's convicted- but will the new prosecutor see the truth?


Miami Mixer: Oh Hail, Bloody Mary

Darkly Dreaming Dexter/Angel of La Guardia Crossover

Authored by: Jazzy Fader, Midday Satire, and Katja Aeron Valiant.

_Ever wonder what would happen when the worlds of perhaps the two most admired serial-killer vigilantés crossed paths?_

"Gah, it's _terribly hot,_" the man next to me winced and shed his suitcoat. Sweat beaded readily on his brow and made his longish blonde hair limp.

"Yeah, Raphy, this is Miami." I shook my head and slid on a pair of aviators. The eight-hour plane trip wasn't a very enjoyable one, and it felt good to just be out in the open now and _observe._ I pulled my passport from a canvas bag burdening my shoulder, my picture inaccurately labeled.

"Trust me," he said, "it's not going to be questioned. And, don't call me Raphy." He plucked the small leather portfolio from my hands and deposited it right back into my bag. "Come on, we have to check in. Limo's waiting."

"Must you spoil yourself so, Quinne?"

"Yes, and is that a pair of my Ray Ban's I see you're wearing?"

"Ray-wha?"

"Sunglasses. Come on, Haley." He looped an arm around me defensively and ushered me into the waiting Mercedes. Quinne looked visibly relieved as he sank against the leather, breathing in the artificially arctic atmosphere. I slipped the sunglasses off and peered out of the tinted window at the scantily clad throngs of people, moving smooth and passing without rhythm. I could hear the clinking of glass and knew that Quinne was pouring himself a shot or three of Scotch, certainly a special request of the limo service. Quinne wasn't even close to a celebrity, and if he wasn't, then I must be on the complete bottom of the totem pole. I pressed my hands to the glass to get a better look.

Everything just seemed so casual here as compared to Amberlin. Giant hotels, Cuban cafés, and just so many _humans._ Crawling over pavement, meandering in and out of designer stores, casinos, lobbies and offices... the very vibrations of life thrumming, impatient and full.

"Haley, you're going to smudge the windows."

"You paid for it, Quinne. I don't think they care."

"Don't scare the locals."

"I can't promise anything," I accented my statement with a sharp smile. "I know we're here on business. I'll be good."

"You'd better be. No surprises."

"Nothing surprising, I promise." I reached into a small cooled compartment next to me for a bottle of water. At least, I didn't think it _should_ surprise him anymore. It took a little getting used to, sure, but come on. It wasn't like I didn't have The Best of Intentions. Even though my intentions were good, great even in my books, it had forced us to take a small leave of absence. Quinne let me pick the city, and for reasons unbeknownst to him, I hailed Miami as our prime destination. Now the poor pampered prince was set to suffer in the heat. He'd get used to it.

"Haley, I almost forgot." Quinne pulled out his wallet and handed me about four-hundred-dollars in twenties and fifties. I crumpled the green notes into my pocket, forever ruining the crisp composure that they held in his esteemed position. He shook his head.

"What's this for, souvenirs?" I asked, squeezing the last bill roughly into the front pocket of my jeans. The ball of money gave my hipbone a funny, suspiciously tumorous protrusion.

"Whatever you want, Haley. Have fun, and don't forget." He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece expectantly.

"Don't forget to call you, yes. I won't," I sighed. Who did he think he was now? Sure, the _papers_ listed him as a slightly estranged 'Uncle Ryan Quinn,' and me as his ever-innocent fifteen-year-old niece 'Haley Sera Quinn,' but that didn't give him any excuses to be _protective._

The limo slowed to a smooth stop at the door of the Baypalm Chamberlain Reserve Hotel. I didn't wait for the driver to come around and let me out. There was Business To Attend To.

"You won't forget, or you won't call?"

"You decide." I shut the door and looked back only once to grace Quinne with a small wave.

All of Miami was now mine.

The sun beat down on my head mercilessly. I could almost feel it bleaching the red dye out of my hair. I moved deftly and discreetly though the living, breathing mass of flesh not unlike the street crowds in Amberlin. Though, people were more apt to smell of coconuts and Cuban cigars than dirty motor oil, worn leather and cheap cigarettes. It was definitely a nice change for the nasal palette.

Cuban-Spanish made a quick and choppy melody in my ears as I passed a small café, enticingly spiced smells greeting me in wafting waves from the open door. My tongue felt dry and ached for something fruity, so I backtracked and went inside.

"Hola," I mustered, my knowledge of third-year-Spanish suddenly feeling inadequate and rusty. An older Cuban man with frizzy grey hair and a matching beard attended to me. "Hola, chica. What is it I can get for you today?"

"Something sweet. Surprise me," I shrugged and tightened the corners of my mouth into a charming smile.

"All right, chica. I know just the t'ing." He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me to my rickety table.

I attempted to tap my boots on the wooden floor, but made no sound. I had traded them, along with my other traditional garb, for something more fitting. Black Nike flip-flops now graced my feet, my war-torn leather jacket replaced by a white wifebeater I gleaned from Quinne's bureau. My skin looked so pasty compared to that of the native Floridians. I'll bet I just screamed vulnerable and unwitting tourist...

"Here, chica. It is _guarapo_, made from sugarcane and mango." The waiter set a very large glass with what appeared to be halfway between a smoothie and a slushie in front of me. I took a sip and was instantly delighted, a fire-crackingly fruity flavor just ravaging my tongue. I finished it quickly and left one of my twenties under the edge of the glass. Can't be Late To Work, even on vacation. I sprinted out of the café, completely rejuvenated.

I paused to study the tropical version of myself in a mirrored window not far from the café I had just left. My pale shoulders were beginning to show the pinkness of the harsh Miami sun. Quinne's aviators shielded most of my face, framed by brick-red hair that I'm sure is going to fade to a rusty orange by the end of the week. My boyish frame had a definitive outline that I wasn't used to seeing. I passed the 'inconspicuous-test' by a small margin and passed away into my favorite shadow to watch the sun go down.

A few hours later, my pocket buzzed irritatingly. I wrenched a RAZR phone from its denim confines (another uselessly expensive present from my dear _Uncle _Quinne) and checked the little luminous screen. Guess who.

"What," I flipped it open a little too harshly.

"Haley. I told you to call me."

"No, you asked me not to forget, and I said that I wouldn't."

"Damn it, Haley! Where are you?"

"No worries, Quinne, it's only seven. "

"I didn't ask what time it was. Where _are_ you?"

"Miami, Florida, and I'll be back to the Baypalm before the clock strikes midnight. Thank God I don't have to do the walking in glass slippers."

"I scheduled dinner in a half-hour!" Quinne exclaimed. I could hear the synapses in his poor brain fizzling with impatience. The 32-year-old might suffer a premature stroke if he doesn't just learn to Let Me Be. "Haley, can't you just cease the prowling, just for one night, and spend some time with _me_!"

"Oh, my melodramatic Raphy. Christ, let me do some sightseeing." I leaned up against the side of the nearest building, looking to passerby as a frustrated, uncoordinated tourist in a tiff with her father or her beau.

"I _know_ what you're looking for," Quinne growled. "Haven't you ever heard of the phrase, 'Take nothing but pictures, and leave nothing but footprints?'"

"I assure you there will be neither."

"Haley, that's not what I meant."

"Good. See you at midnight." I flicked the phone shut and shoved it back in my pocket. Hmm, the whole city of Miami under my finger and just about five hours to find exactly what might be looking for me. I left my post against the wall and continued down the boulevard, weaving in and out of the intravenously clogged web of bodies. The city lights were just beginning to blaze, and it was already more elegant and special in this humid air than anything I've seen in Amberlin.

I headed down to one of the dirtier sects of Miami, akin to Southbend Amberlin, where I grew up. Newscasts made it clear to me what plight the Floridians were in—the grasp of the Ice Truck Killer. Ritualistic murders, corpses drained completely of blood and dismembered in a manner surgically precise and clean… I could go on, but gushing admiration isn't what I'm here to do.

I do believe that the Ice Truck Killer is going to get his first taste of frostbite by way of Haley Jade Vervaine.

"Where have you been?" Quinne fumed, all but springing from his position by the window. The suite he chose was a rather nice one, and of course with a price tag complementary to the view and all the amenities. Oak furniture, well stocked mini-bar (of which Quinne had already sampled the scotch) and I didn't have to look to know that there _must_ be a jacuzzi. Not a jacuzzi-bathtub, but an actual jacuzzi.

"I told you, sightseeing."

"For _five hours?_"

"Miami's a big city." I shrugged my flip-flops off of my feet and fell back onto the bed.

"I _had_ reservations at the Dharvir."

"And?" Damn, this bed was comfy. The cream colored silk throw was a cool delight to my sunburnt shoulders.

"And fortunately for us, I rescheduled."

"So what now?"

"You're going to spend time with me. You're _not_ getting out of my sight." Quinne plopped down next to me and slid his hand up my thigh. I sighed.

"Not now, Raphy."

His pale green eyes grew stormy and flashed with the ferocity of flesh-eating scarabs. He stood up abruptly and downed another three shots of the scotch, respectively.

"Get dressed. Put on what's in the closet, and meet me in the lobby."

My guardian swept out of the room without another word. What could he possibly have planned at a quarter-past midnight? An opera?

I opened the oaken closet door and found a new pair of knee-high patent leather combat boots, with shiny zippers and buckles more suited for decoration than function, and three-inch stiletto heels that could punch through bone. Very nice. I unhooked a pair of dark denim jeans from their hanger, appropriately sized, though much of a lower cut than I would choose. What was this brand? I checked the tag: Apple Bottom? Huh? This was definitely not opera apparati.

I slid out of my ratty jeans, pale and old, letting them pool on the floor. After some awkward hopping, I squeezed what I had thought to be a rather boyish body into the new pants. I spun in front of a large mirror, confuddled in slight by my feigned curves. Surely they weren't _really_ there. I ran a brush though my hair and spritzed it with a little hairspray, giving my bangs an edgy look and taking out the drabness of a day's wear. I found another new item hanging in the closet, a black tank-top in the style of my precious wifebeaters, but with a much more feminine cut. After slipping into that, I gave my ensemble the necessary last special touches: my studded belt (hey, it complemented the buckles) and some metallic gun-metal eyeshadow over the top of my smudged eyeliner. Presto, instant change from Tomboy Tween to Vivacious Vixen. Same Great Taste (in Morals), We Just Changed Our Label! I clicked my way down the marble staircase to meet my date.

Leaning up against a staircase parallel to the one I was descending, a tall blonde man with crossed arms waited impatiently. His longish dark gold mane was casually loose, even a little messy. I could see his brows knit over narrowed eyes, his angrily angular face smooth and expectant. Rectangular amber-lensed glasses shielded his eyes and complemented painfully high cheekbones and a definitive jawline. He wore an impeccably black collared shirt, unbuttoned to the collarbone (which glittered with about three different gold chains) and sleeves rolled up to expose a matching gold Rolex timepiece. A dark storm-grey sportcoat was draped over the banister, and as I reached the bottom of my staircase, it appeared to be made of a sheerly metallic fabric.

"Looks like you clean up okay," I shrugged, catching the scent of his spiced cologne. Armani Code, a favorite of mine.

"You are just a vision yourself, aren't you." Quinne commented snidely, and took me by the waist. "Come on, let's go."

A black version of his SLR McLaren awaited us in the front of the hotel. Red streetglow flashed on-and-off as it purred to life by remote control.

"Must you outdo yourself?" I said, unlatching the gullwing door and letting it fly upwards.

"It's not outdoing yourself if you've got means to do it."

"Sure, so where are we headed?" The familiar navscreen was absent from the dash in this McLaren, so no clues there.

"It's time you got a taste of true nightlife." Quinne said, taking a sharp left onto a wide street, one I hadn't had a chance to explore. The neon lights and signs flashed and popped and fizzed in my vision like a radioactive soda. If I didn't know better, I would think that we might've ended up in Vegas. Quinne flicked a switch and flashed some unknown Morse code with the streetglow at a few passing ladies, who returned quite the provocative look in his direction. Quinne chuckled, and raised an eyebrow at the girls, clad in what looked like a futuristic version of a cheaply budgeted porn film wardrobe.

"You disgust me," I crossed my arms, and looked though my side of the tinted glass vignette.

"Come on, Haley. Seriously." Quinne patted my knee. "You know they mean nothing to me."

"If they meant nothing, then you would let me--"

"Can't we just get off that subject, that mindset, for _one night?!_" He sighed in exasperation. I was getting on his nerves, good. He slid his arm around me and gave me a haphazard hug. I didn't move. "Haley, please. We're on vacation, chrissakes."

"Then stop acting like my 'uncle,' and maybe we'll get somewhere." He _knows_, better than anyone, that I don't adhere to society. I mean to clean it, to make it better, and by doing that--I'm on my own, twenty-four-seven. Waste management has been a real problem, and Miami's no exception. There isn't any time to just sit back and relax. I'm itching, you know, like those people that clean all the time? OCD clean? Yeah. If I don't start 'cleaning,' I'm going to blow a gasket.

"Fine, whatever." Quinne sighed and withdrew his arm. I felt a little raw, suddenly. He was never going to find what he was looking for in me. At least, I'm what he had _thought_ he wanted. Now I know he's not so sure. Either way, there was still business to attend to, and his sour mood wasn't going to spoil my renewed evening plans.

The McLaren glided to an easy stop in front of a throng of what looked to be alien BDSM fanatics. Clubgoers.

"Wait a minute, we're--"

"Yes," Quinne cut me off. "And if it is at _all_ possible, do me one favor, Haley. Even if you can't stand to _pretend_ to have a good night with me..."

"Raphy, it's not that at all!" I feigned an exclamation.

"Just... don't kill _anyone_." He ran a hand though his loose hair. I slumped my shoulders, not from his reprimand, but for disappointment. Great, I was just going to get myself into more trouble later, on Quinne's bad temper anyway. I'll soothe it later, even if it means physicality again. I didn't _aim_ to rub him the wrong way, I just can't help it!

"One more thing. Don't call me Raphy."

Lights roiled and rolled across the massive, fleshy amoeba that covered the dance floor. Bass thrummed through my ribcage, sparking a slight pain on my left side. My ribs haven't fully healed from a few moons ago. Too bad I don't have On-The-Job Insurance Coverage. I pressed myself against a metal banister, overlooking the lower-level of the club. A refreshing techno beat arose to drown out the scratchy squall of the blatant rap before it. I had lost Quinne about twenty minutes ago, probably to the drunk and rabid female population. He did happen to be extremely good-looking, though I only ever gave him the level of credit for just being easy on the eyes. His arrogance nor his principle of invincibility needed furthering, and to think of it, I wouldn't be surprised if I had to drive us back to the hotel. Goddamnit.

An arm hooked around my elbow and pulled me from the railing. "Come on, show your stuff, pretty girl!" A drunk and gruff man pawed at me. "Come on, girlie, I'll buy you a drink," he stumbled and threw an awkward, sweaty arm in gesture to the overcrowded bar. Any man, drunk, gruff or otherwise putting their dirty mitts on me was not to be tolerated, especially if their name didn't happen to be Raphaeus Amadeus Quinne, M.D. And even then, it's hard to get past the red tape.

"What?" I clapped a hand to my ear and twirled my other finger, indicating the ample volume of the music. I could hear him fine.

At this point he leaned over on my shoulder and dribbled the remnants of his drink generously on my brand-new top, slurring something close to "Lemme buy you a drink!"

"No, thanks." I pushed him back and the carnivorous dance crowd swallowed him up again. Thank those little dark gods for incapacitation, right? Speaking of which, I now felt a desperate need to find Quinne. If not for my well-being, for his definitely.

The bar was glasstopped and backlit by thrumming liquid-aqua colored fluorescents. Lilac purple lights danced underneath the glass, somewhat in time to the music, now something akin to a Daft Punk remix. A crew-cut bartender with pierced ears slid drinks to their respective orderers. I found my quarry at the far end of the neon bar, shadowed in what seemed to be the VIP section. I had to be waved in. What I saw disgusted me.

Two girls, one Cuban and one Asian, were draped over Quinne like mink furs, or rattlesnakes. He lounged back with a drink in hand, and let their hands roam the expanses of his body. I could see the tip of a hundred-dollar-bill wedged hastily into the Asian girl's purse.

"So, I see that they don't mean anything to you," I snapped.

"Who's this?" the ornament on the right asked Quinne. "She looks too young to be in here."

"I'm just as legal as your greencard," I sneered. My five-three swagger (now five-six swagger, thanks to the weapons that happened to be my heels) was enough to detach the Asian girl. The Cuban mistress looked ready for a fight.

"Haley, be_have_." Quinne warned.

"I would, and I kept my promise, you pompous ass," I glared. "But the night's not over yet."

"Do you want me to take her outside?" A coal-hot look was cast my way as an unneeded accessory to the idle barb.

"No, Yasmine. Go buy yourself a drink." He tossed her a twenty and she clicked by me in her acrylic pumps, nudging me hard with her hip.

"What the hell?" I threw my arms in an exaggerated gesture.

"You told me to stop acting like your uncle," Quinne said plainly, and drained the rest of his drink. He was more than pleasantly buzzed, he was pleasantly staggering drunk. Sweat beaded on his neck and his collarbone, and made his longish hair limp and look more light brown than blonde. His shirt was unbuttoned farther now, more than likely the work of the hired hands Quinne so generously paid. He made a motion for me to sit next to him.

"I never told you to act like a blithe idiot," I reprimanded.

"I'm just trying to have a good time," Quinne sighed and dropped his head into his hands. "I'm _trying..._"

"Trying for what?"

"I _was_ trying to make _you happy_. Get your mind off _killing_."

"Isn't that what you--"

"Yes, and no, Haley." He looked up and slid his glasses off. "Stop worrying about the goddamn world and just have a _night_ with me."

I never said that my relationship with Quinne was simple. I've never said anything about it, really. I suppose it was harder for him to deal with, because he's become rather attached to me, for some reason I can't discern. _Romantically_ attached.

For that reason and that one alone, I had deduced that he was on the list of things to rid the world of. My former top priority was in fact to put an end to him, but hey. He grew on me. Through a tangled web I'd rather not take the time to explain, we now sort of _needed_ each other, whether we liked it or not. I just don't know why he felt such an obligation toward me. I was going to kill him, for chrissakes.

"Come on, let's call a cab and get back to the hotel." I suggested, patting his shoulder with what I'd hoped would appear as compassion and care.

Quinne slid his glasses back on and wiped his forehead. My poor, inebriated Raphy. I hoped that the hangover he'd get would haunt him for the rest of our trip.

The lavish suite was a welcome sight to my eyes. Practically carrying a six-foot-three incapacitated male up three flights of stairs sure seemed good for a cardio session, but I wouldn't recommend it. You'd think in a goddamn ritzfest like this they'd have working elevators.

"Quinne, sit down."

"I'm fine, Haley," he swooned, nearly knocking a ceramic tablelamp off its rattan stand. "I'm fine."

"You're not, sit down." I directed him to the foot of the bed, where he slumped over like a ragdoll. Although, I've never seen such a doll clothed in Armani and blitzed on who-knows-what.

I sighed, putting my hands on my hips. Even that small a gesture made my muscles tingle from my previous overexertion.

"Sit up, Raphy."

"You told me to sit down!"

"Sit down, but not lay down." I climbed up onto the bed and swung my leg over him, sitting on his lap. I pulled him up by his collar to a somewhat agreeable sitting position, and he grinned widely.

"No, Raphy. Just try and stay up," I asked.

"I'll stay up for this," he sneered. I could smell the Molotov liquor cocktail on his breath. He wouldn't remember any of this tomorrow. It took a lot to get Quinne blitzed, I'll admit. I don't know how many Long Island iced teas he had, or exactly what was in them. It smelled like a cross between rubbing alcohol and battery acid. I began to undo what buttons did happen to be left done up on his dress shirt, clenching my teeth in memory of the adornments Quinne had bought himself.

"Good, the sooner we get these off, the sooner we go to bed." I pulled on his left sleeve, and he attempted to fumble out of the right.

"Sounds good to me," Quinne grinned again. I wasn't lying to him, he was just thinking out-of-context.

Now shirtless, Quinne decided that I should be too. "Your turn," he raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "Skin the kitty," he demanded. I complied by raising my arms to humor him. He pulled my tank-top up over my head and threw it behind him. Quinne looped his arms around me in an awkward way, and lay back on the bed, pulling me down with him.

"Come on, Raphy," I toyed with his hair, knowing it was only a matter of time. "We're not done yet."

"We're not done until _I_ say we are," he echoed assertively, drunkenly slurred.

"Exactly. Come on," I prodded, and sat back up. Sliding off of his lap and onto the floor in front of him, I pulled off his shoes, then socks, and put them aside. He managed to sit back up again, and leaned hapharzardly on an elbow.

"What're you waiting for, get on with it!" Quinne demanded. He furrowed his brow and undid his belt.

"You wait for me, I'll be right back," I said, sitting up and kissing him on the chin. I could taste whatever he'd been drinking, and I tried not to make too much of a face. Rising, I waggled a finger at him and walked out of the room slowly, lingering suggestively on the doorframe.

Phew. I looked at the wall clock. 3:03 AM.

He'd be out cold in about four minutes, leaving me to my own devices for at least eight hours.

Finally, Things Are Going To Start Getting Done Around Here.


End file.
